Tell about the mud and the grass and the birds. Are they often. Do they care about you? Will they sing when the mud is empty and the only things remaining are about thoughts foaming; as though a dog has gone too far and the sun has mislead. “I don’t know”, speaks a tree; just heard the final call in the strength of a single piece of paper that never was. We’re rather sure about the paper, and the caring.
-M. Taggart
Strange remote corridor with cement walls flaking into watery step-stones, dark found a friend, and we walked; alone sings a nothing and what a funny thought came to mind about let freedom ring. -M. Taggart
I like straight forward curvatures in mud. I’m from mud, I say, when asked indifferently. I’m from mud and cow pastures and tall green ferns growing on the banks of the friendly gurgling brook with the trout hiding in the deepest pools under the roots of a hovering pine; casting a shadow is a harboring act of courage when having wellness in mind. for others. and more others.
-M. Taggart
A simple thing happened. So we left the rest to figure it out. A document signed by the wind. Possibly and irresistible sense of fingers on a keyboard begging for one, more, minute, done and gone. A bubble formed in the bath of a child, while mouth held under water, created by Mount Olympus’s keeper, crawled, escaping, toward freedom and fire on Earth. Watch as the mountains shed droplets of bark toward all who see and fetch a pale of water to rinse, it’s about here, and now, and then again, so very simply so.
-M. Taggart
Self, I’ll be me. Knife looked fine ignoring. Some lights aren’t as bright as others. And some stars burn less hot purposefully, not needing the stage. Isn’t the crisp air just that. While so many balls of eyes watch the non-adjusted. Droplets of water, with their delicate prisms, have a more clear view.
-M. Taggart
How’s the room look today?
did you wash its thoughts
Are we speaking in systems about mouths rinsing and repeating how to be? Isn’t it nice to hear about how you are. Isn’t it nice to reach a fit of madness to push and pass and become another version of that moment until fingers type systematically about a word we ought to know but don’t, yet pretend we fucking do; as they push forward further than anything we had seen since the beginning of the typing with a delivering eye. Good. Let’s walk another round of this.
-M. Taggart
The boy scrubbed a rock near the brook. He listened as the squirrels sprung from trees onto brittle leaves which lay lifeless until a quick breeze, or a energetic squirrel, shuffles them. He noticed how the racket made from the busy squirrels might sound like a large animal and how it was hard to know the difference unless you spent much time in the woods, or if you saw with your eyes what you were hearing. The rock looked smooth and glossy while it was wet, but as soon as it dried it looked rough. Again he dipped his shirt sleeve into the brook and began scrubbing. -How much more clean do you need it to be? Asked the mind of a thought.
-M. Taggart
We’ll go here now. It’ll not matter because the filled glass will be put away. It’s not for them to do this. When they do we leave. It’s not truth and we know this. Because we know we cannot care about them or how they came to think. Their decision is their own and then there’s more. There’s always more it’s odd that we continue to care. A cob fell from the stock. A boy picked it from the mud and wondered where it came from. He turned and faced the morning sun. He wanted to ask.
-M. Taggart
O.W.15
I saw that before seeing it and now it’s as if I didn’t. The song of the dysfunctional moaning happens. As feet move, over screaming cement. A disdain foams just under thought, asking for more and more; move over and feed this original sin. A seedling isn’t just a thing happened, again, as the fearing behemoths protest- It’s all been done before.
-M. Taggart
This morning may bring you rain. While you’re just leaving your door, it’s possible you’ll be drenched before you reach your first end to your second step. Within that last drop, which qualifies you to be considered drenched for certain, you’ll possibly not, or might, notice that you are, fully drenched. Either way, it was one drop, among all drops, that pushed your person to where you are drenched. If this is the case and you realize anything about it, you are abnormal and for that the drop thanks you.
-M. Taggart
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